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bye






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Move forward



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Stop looking at me..


...and just be honest with yourself instead. I am not perfect.  Just "Saved" by Grace because no amount of works I can do will ever amount to more than filthy rags.  I'm not 'self-righteous' and certainly not 'better-than-you', and if you think that of me you certainly don't know me or have a concept of the various paths my many wayward steps in life have taken me.  Instead of examining my life and all its faults as some kind of petty way of lifting yourself up, follow Christ instead.  Too many complain and call themselves unbelievers because of Christian Followers; they should be following Christ instead of his followers.  Examine him who he was.  Instead of constantly trying to belittle and tear down your perceived understanding of Jesus why do you be honest with yourself and start that investigation all over from scratch.  Why don't you just be honest and blunt enough, that you say you always are with everything secular in your life; and just turn that lens on Jesus.  Turn that view on yourself and then compare the two.  Instead of laughing and trying to find fault with me and others all the time; as some kind of twisted exciting fun way of justifying your own pet "sins", tastes, style and flavors - ask yourself why? Why do you really keep holding own to your own pet bitterness, and childhood baggage.  Stop and look at yourself instead of me and others. Find your own answers.  Sometimes starting from scratch is scary but it beats wasting the rest of your life; what have you wasted already.




....

Moran

THE TEXAS SNOWS, Page 6; (c) 1971
"...Moses Moran Snow served in the Army for the Confederate States of America.  He enrolled the 7th of Sept 1861 under the leadership of Captain George Freeman, in the Pedernales Home Guard Calvary Co.   His rank is shown as 4th Sgt.  While searching for bushwackers, he was killed by a squad of Captain Dorbandndt's Militia."

   After many years of reading this and being somewhat confused by the wording I was able to do some research and became very enlighten on "what" this really meant.  Moses Snow deserted the Confederate Army and went back to his frontier log cabin home in Texas, to defend his family on the border of 'Indian lands'.  Many deserters were hunted down because they had become outlaws and "bushwackers" [Highwaymen, 'jumping out of the bushes to wack' and kill those hunting them]; Moses Moran Snow was not one of them, but a deserter who ran home to his family.  He was actually killed in his home [with] his wife.



click to enlarge


TALKERS

THE SHIPWRECK
   West of the triple-headed, Dwarven Mountain called Jebul, lie the Cracks of the Hora-medion.  The cracked plains were south of the haunted forest Kinderval, beyond the white beaches of the Great Sea.  It was a barren waste-land, where the rocky hills grew into the great heights of Mount Jebul, the jewel of the southern dwarf kingdom.  Seldom did it rain enough for any vegetation beyond brush to even grow as the earth never drank her fill.  Hence, were the large three foot cracks in the earth, where even the horses of unwary explorers, became ensnared.  Some cracks were bottomless pits and others were openings to greater doom.  Those sparse broken-lands were harsh and most inhospitable to any but the aborigines who lived there.  They were called Hora-medion: ‘the flesh eaters’.   The many disappearances were more than rumors to impede travelers, as shaken, scarce survivors could attest first hand.  Even the stout dwarven miners of Jebul bypassed that parched domain, out the uncertainty of overland travel.
   At the moment, all that Captain Traclee knew was that his ship and crew of fourteen had run ashore.  They had left the port city of Lindol only two days before under the hope of clear skies and promise of a safe dwarven harbor.  Neither was the case.  A sudden storm tossed The Grey Gull and her men and cargo upon the jagged rocks.  Unable to remain in a sinking craft the sailors quickly gathered their belongings.  They loaded as fast as possible, crates of: pipe weed, rum, bundles of boar pelts and what food provisions they could muster.   Only the lives of nine men were saved, and the barest of supplies filled a single dingy.
     Their overland travel had just begun.  The old seafarer surveyed the land before him, seeing only flat beaches to the left and right.  Traclee knew exactly where he was.  Despite the fear-laden rumors of where they beached, the Captain bellowed orders to disembark the smaller boat.  Off in the distance loomed the monster infested forest that appeared to float on the rays of the desert heat.  Many of his men were new and had never before witnessed such a frightening sight.  The barking Captain ordered them to keep moving.  The illusion before their fearful eyes would do better fixed on Jebul, and recalling that breaking a trade agreement with dwarves was a more dreadful thing.  Two men carried one of the rolled up sails at either end, with goods in the other hand as they all marched east.   Everyone was heavy laden with the burdens of commerce.  

   The weather worn Captain was three times the age of his men; yet his own experiences in these dark lands came rushing back to him.  His grey eyes held back the fear of what he knew lay before them.  The old man hoped that he had cheated death enough for his wisdom to keep his men safe.  But this trip felt like a replay of Traclee’s own maiden voyage sixty-three years earlier.   He prayed like never before to all the gods of Lindol that the journey ahead was not a repeat as well.  He kept those secrets to himself as he pushed his crew forward.  Pointing to the right, they headed east.  He aimed to round the back side of Jebul, heading north near the Gorge of the Talkers.  From there they would turn south and head for the front door of the dwarven kingdom.  Such was the plan and hope.

   A young boy, carrying a pack on his back and an oar as a staff, called out up ahead to the Captain, “Sir, why do they call it the Gorge of the Talkers?”
   It was the First Mate who replied, “So, the cabin boy is the first to conversate, and what a topic, eh Cap’n ?”
   Traclee did not answer but kept pressing forward without looking back.  He kept his thoughts to himself.
   “Jonas, it is called that because the very rocks themselves speak.  Now, do you believe in such tales boy?”  The First Mate asked playfully.
   “Yes I do, Mister Sanders.  I believe in the Prophet Kyon too, sir.”  Against the men’s laughter, the twelve year old held to Kyon’s strength and determination as well; dismissing them with his own smile. 
   “Good to believe in something, boy.  You will all need as much faith before this day is done.”  The Captain’s voice silenced everyone.
   Two hundred yards north of the beach they came upon a crevasse, then another hole in the ground and then another.  Like a lizard, a little man squeezed his way out of one of the holes.  He sprang to his feet making the intruders halt.
   The tiny, mud caked figure had a broad nose that covered its wide face.  Soulless black, deep set eyes peered at each of them in turn.  With a downturned mouth that muttered its own speech, he chattered through tarnished, sharpened teeth that demanded attention from the hearer, “Deeda motta uba su-ota ma ha-tuma?”
   Looking at one another, the sailors did not know how to respond to such a coded message.   Then, astonishing everyone, the Captain answered the thing back, “Noa u-oma wda sayeis Deedo.  Keta Lindol, yeta mama du-ma.”
   The first mate was going to ask Captain Traclee what was going on, but he could tell from the look of the old man’s face there was nothing good being exchanged between them.  The seafarer’s introduction agitated the man that stood half their size; yet, as the two spoke several more crawled from the cracks encircling the nine lost men.  With their growing numbers the tiny, odd looking aborigines took on a more fearsome appearance, each armed with side blades and spears.  Wearing just loin cloths their dark bodies were coated in colored mud; war paint to be sure.
   Suddenly, the first one that had appeared and begun speaking first burst into laughter, at which all the others aimed their weapons at the new comers.  More concerned with commerce than war, none of them were armed except for the Captain, and he left his sword in its sheath.  Traclee removed his hat and bowed.  His men followed his example.  The Captain stayed bent down for a long time, when the leader yelled out, “Ka Demo!”
  When the old man slowly rose up, Captain Traclee saw that he and his men were all alone on the deserted beach, and then ordered, “March.”  They did so, all the while silently heading east, making their way about the ever widening cracks of the growing desert.   After sometime, the first mate commented to the cabin boy. “That was no garden gnome mind you, and if they do not get us these cracks will!”

   The day was edging toward evening, and still they had not yet reached the foothills of Jebul, or their turn north.  Overhead a mass of crows flew by.  Looking up Sanders spoke his thoughts, “I dare say that is never a good omen.”
  On those words one of the crewmen asked, “Shall we be making camp soon, Mister Sanders?”  Then adjusted the pack on his back, and switched loads from one hand to the other.
   Answering instead, the Captain ordered, “Mister Aleens, only when you spy the painted split rock shall you set camp, understood?”
   “Aye sir.”
   Then to another he said, “Neldo, you can teach the boy how to strike flint and start a fire as you two will begin our first watch of the night; on the second, we march.”  He complied; but they all exchanged glances of disapproval to the lack of real sleep.  They had yet to see a reason for such haste.  Still they marched on in the heat of the setting sun.  The flatlands looked more like a dry river bed with its scales of curling mud that stretched for miles in every direction.  The cracks deepened even as they spread apart.  Still they followed in single file.
   Six and a half hours after they made landfall, Aleens called out, “Captain, a painted split-rock lies up ahead!”
   “Very good, sir. Rest as you will, for in two hours we turn north.”  Moments later their gear was dropped where the stood, a fire made and brief rations eaten with sips of water.  Beds made from cloaks.  Traclee did not sleep.
   Moments after the Captain’s snoring was heard, Jonas whispered to Neldo, causing the old man’s eyes to open wide, “Sir!”
  Looking up from the campfire the older sailor noticed what the boy was pointing to.  A fog had appeared all about them as if they were in the open sea.  The others woke, jumping to their feet at the sound of the Captain’s sword being withdrawn.  Sanders too, stood with a dagger at the ready; retrieved from his boot.  All that could be heard was breathing, in-between held breaths.  Fear was in everyone’s eyes.  Even Jonas was armed with his oar, ready to club whatever came against them.  Yet, all that was heard was the howling of a lone coyote, off in the greater distance.  No reply came as moments later even it fell silent.  Uneasily, one by one the crew found themselves drifting off back to sleep as the Rig-man and cabin boy watched over them all.  Even the Captain snored away beneath crossed arms, with a rock as his pillow.  The cloudless night wore on.
   With a half hour to go before their watch was up, a horrific scream terrified everyone awake, scrambling them to their feet.  Mister Sanders was floating overhead, wrapped in the coils of a huge tentacle that rose out of a deep crack, mere feet from the camp fire.  Jonas furiously began beating at it with his oar.  Traclee shoved the boy to the ground and began hacking away at the beast with his steel.  A growl and squeal filled the air just as the great arm retreated back into its crevasse.  Sanders vanished into the black silence.  Benso and Medane, the two men who carried the rolled sail, suddenly became the next targets of two other great arms.  The four other men: Jacob, Nora, Franal and Seth had each pulled a broken-crate plank from the fire as a torch.  Waving off any other arms they hurried to gather what they could and continued on, this time heading north about the base of the eastern mountain.
  They were wide awake now.  Sleep and food were the farthest things on their mind.  Each step forward was measured with caution and haste.  There was no need to go back in search of their three stolen companions.  Their screams had been snuffed out even as the ground beneath the men’s feet shook.  The underground beast would have no other meal made of them as they fled in the night.
   Nearing daybreak, the silhouette on their left showed itself to be the eastern edge of the forest.  Like the southern wastelands they were now leaving behind them, Kinderval was no place to be wandering in either.  Before them were the great hills that made up the Blue Mountains, that ended with mount Jebul on their right.  A great gap stood like a landmark for the Grey Gull’s last crew to turn east, rounding the triple dwarven peak.  They were nearing their journey’s end and a change of mood allowed the men to breathe easier.   Yet, the stoic Captain pressed the forward in his silence. 
   Two huge faces were carved in the sandstone where the adventures took a moment’s pause.  The bearded portraits were of forgotten kings of a lost people who had been separated ages ago, so the stories went.  Both carvings had hallowed eyes; their missing spheres gave rise to more questions than answers.  Had they been jewels waylaid by highway men?  No one knew.  The mouths of the two great faces were poised as if they were talking.   The approaching men stood there like they had interrupted the stone conversation. 
   Jonas stood leaning on his oar-staff, amazed at the detail of the ancient kings.  Those guardians were only two of the many carved faces with the winding, rocky-gorge.  The winds of time had softened their once fine lines, but even now the workmanship showed character of personality. 
   Jacob asked Jonas, “Do you really expect them to start talking to you boy?” 
   Franal injected, “After what we have witnessed so far, anything is possible.”

   Jonas replied, “Legends are all founded on some kind of truth, sir.”  With that they began heading east along an almost hidden trail as the morning light abated the shadows. 


.............

[5]  HINT:  Go the the front fence, look near the ground.  Middle bar, Brush covered.

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WORKING ON THIS....


THE SHIPWRECK

      West of the triple-headed, Dwarven Mountain called Jebul, lie the Cracks of the Hora-medion.  The cracked plains were south of the haunted forest Kinderval, beyond the white beaches of the Great Sea.  It was a barren waste-land, where the rocky hills grew into the great heights of Mount Jebul, the jewel of the southern dwarf kingdom.  Seldom did it rain enough for any vegetation beyond brush to even grow as the earth never drank her fill.  Hence, were the large three foot cracks in the earth, where even the horses of unwary explorers, became ensnared.  Some cracks were bottomless pits and others were openings to greater doom.  Those sparse broken-lands were harsh and most inhospitable to any but the aborigines who lived there.  They were called Hora-medion: ‘the flesh eaters’.   The many disappearances were more than rumors to impede travelers, as shaken, scarce survivors could attest first hand.  Even the stout dwarven miners of Jebul bypassed that parched domain, out the uncertainty of overland travel.
   At the moment, all that Captain Traclee knew was that his ship and crew of fourteen had run ashore.  They had left the port city of Lindol only two days before under the hope of clear skies and promise of a safe dwarven harbor.  Neither was the case.  A sudden storm tossed The Grey Gull and her men and cargo upon the jagged rocks.  Unable to remain in a sinking craft the sailors quickly gathered their belongings.  They loaded as fast as possible, crates of: pipe weed, rum, bundles of boar pelts and what food provisions they could muster.   Only the lives of nine men were saved, and the barest of supplies filled a single dingy.
     Their overland travel had just begun.  The old seafarer surveyed the land before him, seeing only flat beaches to the left and right.  Traclee knew exactly where he was.  Despite the fear-laden rumors of where they beached, the Captain bellowed orders to disembark the smaller boat.  Off in the distance loomed the monster infested forest that appeared to float on the rays of desert heat.  Many of his men were new and had never before witnessed such a frightening sight.  The barking Captain ordered them to keep moving.  The illusion before their fearful eyes would do better fixed on Jebul, and recalling that breaking a trade agreement with dwarves was a more dreadful thing.  Two men carried one of the rolled up sails at either end, with goods in the other hand as they all marched east.   Everyone was heavy laden with the burdens of commerce.  

   The weather worn Captain was three times the age of his men; yet his own experiences in these dark lands came rushing back to him.  His own eyes held back the fear of what he knew lay before them.  The old man hoped that he had cheated death enough for his wisdom to keep his men safe.  But this trip felt like a replay of Traclee’s own maiden voyage.   He prayed like never before to all the gods of Lindol that the journey ahead was not a repeat as well.  He kept those secrets to himself as he pushed his crew forward.  Pointing to the right, they headed east.  He aimed to round the back side of Jebul, heading north near the Gorge of Talkers.  From there they would turn south and head for the front door of the dwarven kingdom.  Such was the plan and hope.

   A young boy, carrying a pack on his back and an oar as a staff, called out up ahead to the Captain, “Sir, why do they call it the Gorge of Talkers?”
   It was the First Mate who replied instead, “So, the cabin boy is the first to conversate, and what a topic, eh Cap’n ?”
   Traclee did not answer but kept pressing forward without looking back.  He kept his thoughts to himself.
   “Jonas, they call it that because legend has it that the very rocks themselves speak.  Now, do you believe in such tales boy?”  The First Mate asked playfully.
   “Yes I do, Mister Sanders.  I believe in the Prophet Kyon too, sir.” The boy of sixteen caught everyone’s laughter, but dismissed it with a smile of his own.
   “Good to believe in something, boy.  You will all need as much faith as you can gather before this is done.”  The Captain’s voice silenced everyone.


   Two hundred yards north of the beach they came upon a crevasse, then another hole in the ground and then another.  Like a lizard, a little man squeezed his way out of one of the holes.  He sprang to his feet making the intruders halt.
   The tiny, mud caked figure had a broad nose that covered its wide face.  Soulless black, deep set eyes peered at each of them in turn.  With a downturned mouth that muttered its own speech.  Through tarnished, sharpened teeth unfamiliar words clicked from the creature, each one demanded attention from the hearer, “Deeda motta uba su-ota ma ha-tuma?”
   Looking at one another the sailors did not know how to respond to such a coded message.   Then, astonishing everyone, the Captain answered the thing back, “Noa u-oma wda sayeis Deedo.  Keta Lindol, yeta mama du-ma.”
   The first mate was going to ask Captain Traclee what was going on, but he could tell from the look of the old man’s face there was nothing good being shared.  The seafarer’s introduction agitated the man that stood half their size; yet, as the two spoke several more crawled from the cracks encircling the nine lost men.  With their growing numbers the tiny odd looking aborigines took on a more fearsome appearance, each armed with side blades and spears.  Wearing just loin cloths their dark bodies were coated in colored mud; war paint to be sure.

   Suddenly, the first one that had appeared and begun speaking burst into laughter, at which all the others aimed their weapons at the new comers.  More concerned with commerce than war, none of them were armed except for the Captain, who left his sword in its sheath.  Traclee removed his hat and bowed, as did his men in turn.  The Captain stayed bent down for a long time, when the leader yelled out, “Demo!”
  When the old man slowly rose up, Captain Traclee saw that he and his men were all alone on the deserted beach, and then ordered, “March.”  They did so all the while silently heading east, making their way about the ever widening cracks of the growing desert.   After a long time the first mate whispered to the cabin boy. “That was no garden gnome, and if they do not get us these cracks will!”


....

Miss you...



good times...


...

THEY CHANGED THE BOOK!!!

http://www.onenesspentecostal.com/matt2819-willis.htm

http://listverse.com/2015/08/11/10-bible-passages-that-might-be-totally-bogus/

http://www.chick.com/ask/articles/1john57.asp

http://goran.waldeck.se/NWTmanipulated.html

Writing moods



The kind of music I listen to  while I write.

GAME OF THRONES!!!

DREAM: 5

   

   With as many of the strange dreams, Jacob had had, he still could not come to terms with how they overwhelmed his emotions.  The perfection of their realism was startling.  Watching the man bleed out in front of him, only made Jacob feel all the more helpless.  He looked like a medieval king being mourned by his childhood queen.  The young man’s body lay gasping for air on a bed of roots.  Dying before a row of trees, whose trunks had seats and arm rest naturally formed into them, seemed a fitting surrounding.  To the left of the pale figure was a hollowed trunk with stairs leading down into the earth.  The king died before his throne.  To the right of his weeping wife another hollowed trunk had naturally formed stairs leading upward within.  The encircling tree shrine-home was still smoldering even as some overhead branches continued to burn.  The woman wringing her prayerful hands watched his arrow pierced chest rise for the last time.  She gasped aloud, “The King is slain and his world a fallen thing.”

...

Jacob’s dreams

JACOB’S CATHARSIS



   Jacob’s dreams are foreshadowing’s and details, that are later revealed in an ancient manuscript that had been translated from his grandfather’s discovery; a book given to Jacob by a long lost brother he never knew he had.


...

DREAM: 4


   The brilliance of the mid-day sunlight abated as Jacob’s hand shadowed his brows.  Before him, lay a half-naked man on the ground screaming.  His legs and arms were splayed and tied to short posts.  Raised beside the pleading man was a huge mound of mud with a four foot chimney.  Two other men stood to the right of Jacob; they looked like Australian Aborigines with their flaking body paint, and rudimentary weapons.  One used his spear’s tip to gently peck away at the chimney’s domed base; he was extra careful in his approach.  Agonizing moments passed by as the naked man screamed out his confessions and cries for mercy.  The other guard began joining in the task of revealing what was within the massive mud structure.  After a long while Jacob saw the exposed and inner workings of a feverish ant colony within.  The bright red-ants gave no attention to the two men chipping away the outer covering of their world.  Moments later Jacob marveled at the intricate sculpture crafted by such tiny architects.  The likeness of a giant ant head stood high on a pillared neck.  Catacombs and a myriad of tunneled chambers made up the Queen they worshiped.
   Upon seeing the complete structure, all formed from dirt, the two guards exchanged pleased glances with the other’s assistance.

   One of the guards looked down at the silent man on the ground and laughed, as the other harshly rapped his spear on the giant ant head creation.  The massive thing imploded on itself in a cloud of dust causing the two guards to rush backwards.  Seconds later the furious ant colony rushed upon the naked prisoner with an onslaught of revenge; viciously they carried out the man’s sentence of death.

Jacob woke up wide eyed and breathing heavily from his dream.  Its realism was disturbing as he sat up on the side of the bed rubbing his ear, and the sleep from his eyes.  

DREAM: 3

JACOB'S CATHARSIS 


   It felt like he was in the midst of a battle.  The crumbling fa├žade of a wall lay before him, and the smoldering ruins of a city fell behind it.  The yells and screams from the charging forces that advanced left the weeping and moans of the dying behind.  The deafening noise came from every direction but all he could do was just stand there watching.  Suddenly Jacob’s bewildered panic turned to sheer horror as a monstrous face turned in his direction and began screaming orders to him.

   The blackened-face looked like it belonged to a charred body that had just been pulled from a fire.  The creature’s yellow-pooled eyes were blood shot and mean.  Its mouth was filled with jagged canines, sputtering a guttural voice.  It viciously barked at Jacob, “Hurry up you sloth, before the best killing is done with.  You heard the horns calling us to – Ugh!”  The thing’s growl was cut short as its eyes opened to their widest; then the beast collapsed dead at Jacob’s feet.  The Goblin’s back was riddled with arrows, but many more of its kind was armed and rushing headlong, just as eager for the taste of war.

Jacob woke up wide eyed and breathing heavily from his dream.  Its realism was disturbing as he sat up on the side of the bed rubbing his ear, and the sleep from his eyes.  

DREAM: 2

   
JACOB'S CATHARSIS
 

  Jacob stood on a moss covered bolder that was yards from shore.  He was disorientated as to his surroundings and how he got there all alone.  He disliked seafood, and the stench of anything remotely resembling it made him nauseous.  Such was the smell of the carcass of the bloated infant that floated near Jacob’s feet.  The incoming tide and the spraying waves against the rock made him shutter with a chill.  He felt sick.  He fought the urge to vomit as he reasoned his situation.  Turning about Jacob almost fell off the rock as he was startled to see a woman standing directly behind him.
   Her shrill voice, dark complexion and multicolored sari made him think that the lady was from India.  Her beauty was in stark contrast to those on the beach behind him.  She was chattering away in some unknown language.  Jacob interrupted her slowly with, “I cannot understand you.”
  Her words switched to English, “…Eriduah are the middle lands of men, and this is Ra`More om Eul. But for now we, you and I must hurry from here for the storm shall be upon us soon with a great devastation --”
   Hearing the thunder clap for the first time, then seeing the scampering of lightning bolts striking the ocean surface got Jacob’s attention.  He was more frightened by that than what came next.  Before Jacob had time to conceive a response, the woman lost her footing and slipped off the massive bolder into the frigid waters.  Frantically her clawing attempts failed as the tuxedoed Jacob just stood there with his arms folded, doing nothing. She drowned slowly in front of him.  Her bright red hair began to fan out beneath the foaming waves in a curtain of bubble and darkening sea.

   Jacob shook his head, seemingly indifferent to her demise.  He stood there a moment longer as the woman’s entangling sari slowly bobbed and drifted away from him.  Looking back around at the mile of shoreline on either side of him, Jacob felt overwhelm with why he even cared for the great loss of life he saw before him.  The boiling skies overhead roared as a flash of light consumed his vision.

........
Jacob woke up wide eyed and breathing heavily from his dream.  Its realism was disturbing as he sat up on the side of the bed rubbing his ear, and the sleep from his eyes.  

Dream: 1

JACOB'S CATHARSIS...

   The slap was loud and unwarranted as the sting from the woman’s hand immediately began to show its welting print on the young boy’s cheek.  The boy was no more than six years old.  He tried to rub his right ear, but the woman continued to violently shake him by the shoulders while screaming at him.  She was angry about having been prematurely awakened.  The frightened child did his best not to cry out because he knew that it upset his mother all the more.
   Just as she raised her hand for a second blow, another boy jumped in between them both.  The nine year old shoved the younger boy to the ground making him skid to a fall a few steps away.  The older boy shouted, “Leave him alone! Run little brother, I’ll hold her off.”  With that the thin blond-haired boy on the ground scrambled to get away, but not before catching a glimpse of her beating his rescuer.  The tall dark haired hero then fell to the floor and curled up as the angry woman began furiously kicking him in the face, back and ribs, shouting, “So you think you can handle this instead – alright!”
   Crouched behind his nearby bed the younger boy could only watch in silent horror as the beating continued until the woman grew tired, and then quitting on her own accord.

   Jacob woke up wide eyed and breathing heavily from his dream.  Its realism was disturbing as he sat up on the side of the bed rubbing his ear, and the sleep from his eyes.  

Group 1

NEW BOOK TITLE




Jacob’s Catharsis
A Novel by
David DeLane Snow
  Jacob Townsend’s nightmarish dreams propel him to a resolution of his past he never imagined.  An ancient discovery, a lost brother, a beloved wife; what more could one want in life?



CHAPTER ONE
   The slap was loud and unwarranted as the sting from the woman’s hand immediately began to show its welting print on the young boy’s cheek.  The boy was no more than six years old.  He tried to rub his right ear, but the woman continued to violently shake him by the shoulders while screaming at him.  She was angry about having been prematurely awakened.  The frightened child did his best not to cry out because he knew that it upset his mother all the more.
   Just as she raised her hand for a second blow, another boy jumped in between them both.  The nine year old shoved the younger boy to the ground making him skid to a fall a few steps away.  The older boy shouted, “Leave him alone! Run little brother, I’ll hold her off.”  With that the thin blond-haired boy on the ground scrambled to get away, but not before catching a glimpse of her beating his rescuer.  The tall dark haired hero then fell to the floor and curled up as the angry woman began furiously kicking him in the face, back and ribs, shouting, “So you think you can handle this instead – alright!”
   Crouched behind his nearby bed the younger boy could only watch in silent horror as the beating continued until the woman grew tired, and then quitting on her own accord.

   Jacob woke up wide eyed and breathing heavily from his dream.  Its realism was disturbing as he sat up on the side of the bed rubbing his ear, and the sleep from his eyes.  His sleeping wife rolled over and continued to lay undisturbed.  Jacob seemed to have suppressed so much in his life; amazed by how single nightmare could have resurrected a host of unremembered emotions – long thought forgotten.  But, the haunting vision of those two boys – his mind strained to put their faces back into focus.  He almost knew their names, but the attempt to recall them was futile.
   The phone rang.
   “Hello? Morning, James.  Yeah, go ahead and order three black and four baby blue ones, they seem to sell a lot.  Alright, yeah, I’ll see you at the regular time tomorrow.  Good Bye.”  Then, just like that with the phone returned to its cradle it was gone again; his dream and any concept of its recollection.

   Jacob had always thought it was his fate in life not to have a family history, because he had been in and out of orphanages and foster homes for most of his life.  He had no memory of his mother, and only the vaguest flashes of a brother and father watching the original series of Star Trek in a dimly-lit living room.  Yet those nearly forgotten happy thoughts were overshadowed by layers of darker experiences.
   The first foster dad that Jacob ever remembered was an alcoholic bum who lay about the house in boxers barking out orders to him and his three other abused foster-siblings.  By his second family, Jacob had decided to be a loner among four foster sisters who showed him no interest whatsoever. 
   Creepiest of all was his third foster home, which had luckily only been a three week stay with an elderly couple.  They smoked constantly, had a million cats, smelled of Ben Gay, and saw his teenage years as a sign of their own coming deaths.  Their mantra was, “I remember when we used to do such and such, we’ll be long dead and buried before you’ll even recall our names.”  Ironically, years later he never could remember the pronunciation of their Austrian names.

   Three day after Jacob’s sixteenth birthday, he was finally adopted into his fairy tale family.  Even though his new parents, Patricia and Charles Douglas, belonged to an ultra-conservative “thou shalt not” religious group, they at least loved him.  They were caring and accepted him with all his flaws, such as still being afraid of the dark, a bit reclusive, and a chronic nail bitter.  They had two others of their own who accepted Jacob into their family as if he had been raised among them his entire life.  Marcus and Mich.  In appearance they could have been twins, but were as different as night and day.  One was a Rock-n-Roller and the other a Sci-Fi nerd; Jacob himself fell somewhere in-between both their interests.
   It was during this time when he lived with the Douglas family that Jacob began dating a red-headed girl named Arlene Stapleton.  She had no father, but lived with her mother and grandmother across town.  After meeting her, Jacob would peddle his ten-speed bike over to her home and spend his every waking moment visiting with her; whenever he could steal away the chance.

   One day, before his senior prom, after Jacob returned home from one of his best visits with Arlene, everything changed.  The entire evening had been marred by one of the worst thunderstorms he would ever remember.  Leaning his bike against the leaking car port, Jacob came home soaking wet.  Standing just outside the back door fumbling with his house keys, he could hear the seventh ring of the kitchen phone.  Entering as fast as he could, hoping to catch the ringing before it stopped, he nearly slipped. 
   Jacob almost yelled into the receiver, “Hello?”  The air conditioner had been left on high, yet the conversation turned his spine colder than his dripping clothes.
   “Hello, Jacob,” the familiar voice asked in an awkward tone?
   “Yes.”
   “This is Pastor Coleman.  I have got some really bad news for you, son.”
   “Okay?”
   “I – I am so, so sorry to be the one to inform you, and like this over the phone; we’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon.  Jacob, everyone in your family was involved in a serious car collision.  They – they didn’t make it.”
   “Make it?”
   “They are all dead, Jacob.  We are here at the Hos….”
   Just like that he was all alone again.  Hollow and ice-numb did not even begin to describe the emptiness that swallowed his thoughts.  His entire fairy-tale family had been killed by a drunk driver, and in an instance things were changed.  The wind hallowed blowing a spray of rain inside from the side door he forgot to shut.
  

   

   Nothing was the same after that.
   Nothing.
   He did not graduate from High School, moved into a friend’s house, and gave up on believing in God altogether, the church and the whole world.  Had it not been for the love and support of Arlene’s friendship, Jacob would have ended it all that very day.
   Yet, through it all, Arlene was there for him.  The funeral of four caskets, studying for his GED, and the arduous job searches.  She became a constant presence for him, and continually reassured Jacob that he would find his own place in life; and God willing one day even the family of his good memories.  Jacob had found his lifeline in her, for Arlene had become his only solace and reason for getting up in the morning.  Two years later they married in the very park where they first met on his way to school.

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VENTURE INTO MY WORLD

VENTURE INTO MY WORLD
The Watcher's Book of Books